At the age of seven she became wilted, an ashen wallflower,
withered and bobbing behind the brilliantly blossomed wildflower
in the shape of a child, age six.
Stuffed into the extreme corner of the family room sofa
that was covered by an uncomfortable, brick red textile.
She sat, overlooked despite the inviting warmhearted holiday smell
that so desperately attempted to hide the chilled loneliness that
permanently seemed to hug the older of the two daughters.
When embraced she never received the equal affection
that the younger acquired.
The kisses did not brush against her cheeks with praise
from the frosty, unloving lips.
A child who learned to take up a façade in order not to disappoint or
worry the replacement mother who never gave her
any sweet, foolish nicknames.
She hardened her heart to prevent the galloping of unwelcome sentiment,
she hid behind the secrets of a fictitious garden
wishing for the world in which Mary, Colin and Dickon live.
Laughter did not radiate from her aura
despite the curling flames licking her face.
This is really sad :[
I am sad and my heart ached reading this poem. Are you the wallflower?